Always an Exception
by fractured-fairytale06
Summary: Stella hates Valentine's Day. But, of course, there's always an exception. Mac/Stella
1. Once a Year

**Author's Note:**

**Okay, so this is my first CSI: NY story. I love the show, but it's not one I usually write for. I've been really into the characters lately, though, and this just wouldn't leave me alone with Valentine's Day so close around the corner. You know how it goes. So, please review, and tell me what you think.**

**And of course it's Mac/Stella. They're such potent characters that live and breathe and just beg to be played with. **

**(Wow. That sounded terrible.)**

**On with the show!**

**Chapter One**

"**Once a Year"**

I start feeling ridiculous before I even open my eyes, and I can tell it's that time of year by the groan that works its way up my throat.

The alarm clock blaring from my nightstand tells me it's six o'clock, which isn't so unusual, as much as I'd love to say I slept in most Saturday mornings. These days, sleeping in is a thing of the past. Even when I try, I can't do it. The red letters on the clock stare at me until I'm up, which is the case this morning. The red letters also tell me that it's February 14, which I'm happy to report _doesn't _happen more than once a year. Once a year is more than enough time for me to feel awkward and uptight for an entire day, thank you very much.

I promise my hatred of Valentine's Day isn't recreational. I have my reasons, as unscientific as they may be. I guess I could go on about the perpetuation of the belief that if you're not dating on February 14, then there's something wrong with you. I could, and I could pull it off. I've got facts and everything, but that would just be lying.

It's because this is the one day a year that public displays of affection are practically expected rather than frowned upon. Today I'll walk in the lab and be instantly knocked over by the smell of roses coming from every other office. The exceptions, of course, being mine and Mac's. Mac's because he doesn't get flowers, and mine because he doesn't send them, either. That simple fact is almost enough to send me back to bed, but being able to tough it out is something I've always prided myself on. Not that it's easy. Being in love with your boss is hard enough without having to survive an entire day dedicated to it.

So, rather than wallow in bed all day, I turn off my alarm and head for the shower. The water is almost hot enough to scald away the crawling sense of dread and by the end of my shower I've convinced myself it won't be so bad.

Almost, anyway. I do what I can.

When I look in my closet, the first garment to catch my eye is a red silk shirt I bought a few weeks ago. Realizing its subtlety, or lack thereof, I roll my eyes and keep looking. Finally I decide on a charcoal-colored pantsuit and a white blouse, hoping that it's plain enough to keep people's attention elsewhere. My hair is the same curly mess it always is; I gave up experimenting with it years ago. A rushed round with a tube of mascara later and I'm headed out the door, praying almost audibly that today goes quickly. The sooner I'm at home with a never-ending glass of wine, the better.

Normally I would have stopped somewhere along the way for some form of caffeine, but in all the apprehension I waded through this morning I managed to make myself late. I pass at least three Starbucks along the way and I swear they're calling my name. The only thought that keeps me strong is the knowledge that the sooner I go in, the sooner I get out. If I'm lucky, anyway. Unfortunately, most days serve to remind me that without bad luck I might not have any luck at all.

The lab is every bit the zoo it usually is, only this time more people are smiling than swearing. I manage to pass Flack with only a slight nod in acknowledgement and I take it as a tentative step in the right direction. It's my first good omen of the day. Lindsay walks by with an armful of roses, and from the look on her face I decide she's not entirely aware of her surroundings. I make a mental note to keep an eye on her work and slink into my office. I barely have the time to release the breath I'd been holding since I walked in the door before I realize that I'm not alone.

Mac stands, hands in pockets, next to my desk wearing the black shirt he knows I love and a sheepish grin that he knows I'm powerless against. A second later I smell his cologne.

If it looks like an ambush and smells like an ambush, it probably is.

Ignoring the slight constriction in my chest, I give him my best attempt at a nonchalant smile.

"Morning, Mac," I say and walk around the desk to lay my coat across the back of my chair. I feel Mac's eyes following my movements and I try not to notice.

"Good morning."

I'm behind the desk for maybe five seconds when the smell of espresso hits me harder than a subway car. Instinctively my nose tilts up into the air and I can hear Mac's laughter next to me.

"I should have timed you," he said, nodding to the cup of coffee waiting for me on my desk.

I bring the cup to my nose and take a deep breath, despite having accepted years ago that caffeine doesn't travel in airborne particles no matter how much I want it to. The scent is heaven on earth. I give a little moan before I think to suppress it and sneak a look out the corner of my eye at the amused grin on Mac's face. Luckily, I've learned to handle potential humiliation like a pro.

"How did you know?" I ask, sitting the cup back down on the desk. I would have poured it down my throat already, but a scalded mouth wouldn't allow me to enjoy my wine later tonight and that thought is probably the only thing keeping me afloat right now. I take a seat and my eyes drift over the top of my desk; the amount of paperwork demanding my attention is awe-inspiring. How did I ever let it get this bad?

He shrugs at my question. "You were running late."

This makes me laugh.

"So I get rewarded instead of punished? This job is better than I thought."

This time, he laughs. The sound makes me smile.

"Keep that in mind the next time you get fed up with me."

I spare him a look that says very clearly, _I don't get fed up with you. _He decides against a rebuttal and I consider myself lucky; sometimes convincing Mac of his worth to me seems like the hardest part of my job, especially when I have to leave out the "L" word. Corpses and foreign DNA are nothing compared to the torment I know simmers just below Mac Taylor's surface. He would never admit it out loud, but we both know it's true. I think that unspoken communication is what makes the bad times we have all the easier to handle.

The silence between us now, however, is devoid of all meaning. It's comfortable enough, and if I'm honest with myself I would admit that he's a welcome distraction from the paperwork that's waiting for me once he leaves. I cross my legs and give him my utmost attention while he pulls up a chair directly across from mine. His mouth is fixed into a tight line and he clasps his hands in his lap. While his pose is immensely attractive, I know it means something.

"I know that face," I say skeptically. "What's up?"

He winces. "I'm that transparent, huh?"

"Not enough for me to know what's on your mind without you telling me."

That thought alone is enough to unnerve me; I like knowing what I'm getting into before I get into it. Unfortunately, with Mac that was rarely possible. Every now and then I seem to develop some kind of divine insight into him, and can tell when something is bothering him. Those moments, though, don't last forever and I'm back to hoping that if he needs me he'll come find me.

"I've been thinking."

Uh-oh. The lump in my throat is telling me this can go one of two ways, and I'm not sure about either of them. The more romantic side of me is playing out a scene from _Gone with the Wind _and wondering if maybe I should have worn the red shirt_. _My scientist's brain is running through plausible scenarios at the speed of light while yet another part of my brain instructs my brow to furrow and my shoulders to lean forward to give the appearance of an eager ear. I brace myself for what comes next.

"What do you think about getting an intern?"

The question is so far removed from what I was thinking that I laugh out loud.

"You're serious?" I ask and laugh a little more at the shocked look on his face. I manage to pull a straighter face out of my bag of tricks and consider the question. "Um, I haven't given it much thought, actually." My eyes move toward the mass of paperwork just inches away. "I admit, though, that having someone else to worry about all this is an extremely tempting idea."

"That's what I thought," he says and I'm certain I look as surprised as I feel.

"Mac Taylor is willing to let someone else do his work? Without a fight? I'm shocked."

He looks mildly offended. "Not all my work. Just filing; things like that."

"That's not an intern, Mac," I say with an amused smile. "That's a secretary."

He winces again. "Intern sounds better."

"How bad is it?"

"What?"

"Your desk," I clarify. "You must be buried if you're willing to hire someone to do it for you."

"It's not _that _bad," he defends and we both know I can see right through him. He's a lot less adamant when he says, "I can handle it."

I raise an eyebrow. He knows I don't believe a word he's saying.

"Go get some of it," I say with an exasperated sigh that's really more for show than it sounds.

"No, it's fine," he says, pushing himself out of the chair. "It was just a thought I had. Forget I said anything."

"Really, I'm going to be stuck in here all day anyway," I say honestly. "I just finished the Campbell case and I have reports due. I'll get some of yours while you're in the field."

"Campbell?" he asks and I see the scientist in him flaring up. "Gunshot wound, right? The ballistics came back?"

I nod my head. "Suicide."

"Hmm," he says and then looks back at me with sky-blue eyes. "Never mind the paperwork. I'll get it later tonight. I didn't feel like going home, anyway."

His voice tells me he's joking, but his eyes tell me he's not.

"Get me your urgent stuff and I'll add it to the stack," I say, temporarily ignoring the fact that he doesn't have plans on Valentine's Day, either. I can examine it later, when I don't have to worry about keeping up my poker face.

"You don't mind?"

"Not at all," I say, and it's mostly the truth. I hate paperwork, but I love him. "I'll get both of us caught up. What else are friends for?"

"I'll owe you," he says. It's his version of admitting defeat, and I accept his surrender gracefully.

"I'll collect."

He starts out of my office and before I forget I call out, "Thanks for the coffee!"

He answers with a tight smile and walks off, leaving my heart beating rapidly in his wake. Shaking the sensation off, I pull the first file of the morning off the desk with a sigh. Of all the things I could be doing of Mac's on Valentine's Day, paperwork was probably the last on my list.


	2. The World Flies By

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks so much for all the encouraging reviews! This fic has been a lot of fun for me, and I love knowing that other people are enjoying it just as much. Keep it coming; I love everything I can get. =)**

**This is turning into something a little darker in this chapter, but I wanted to be able to show Stella's humor even when dealing with the more unpleasant aspects of her job. This isn't really a casefic, but I wanted to throw it in.**

**Chapter Two**

"**The World Flies By"**

I love how the world seems to fly by when you're trapped behind a desk all day. This time, and it's probably the one and only time, I don't mind. I'd shared lunch with Hawkes around noon and then retreated back to my office to take another stab at ridding myself of the mess. I've had roughly a gallon of coffee today and I'm starting to feel the more negative side effects of caffeine, the more noticeable of which being the mild trembling in my hands and the inevitable crash I feel hovering on the horizon.

It's now six o'clock and I'm almost positive I'm the only one left in the lab, if not the whole building. Strangely, the thought doesn't bother me. There's safety in solitude. The rest of the team is probably out enjoying themselves; I hope so, at least. Danny and Lindsay are most likely out having a night on the town, and Hawkes had shyly mentioned a date earlier over lunch. Flack—well, I had no idea what Flack would be doing. Him or Adam. It's for the best, I suppose. They don't know I'm still at the lab at six o'clock on a Saturday night. On Valentine's Day, no less.

_Like that matters, _I scoff. I'd be just as alone if it were next Saturday or last.

In better news, I've made a serious dent in the war zone that is my desk. Over half the files that had littered it this morning were now in boxes, waiting to be taken away. As far as I'm concerned, I didn't do too badly. The slight ache in my shoulder convinces me that I've done a good day's work, even if it did bore me to death. Tomorrow is my day off, and I fully intend to enjoy in guilt-free. Before I get there, though, I have to finish the remainder. If I kept at it and had another cup of performance-enhancing coffee I'd be out of here by eight, tops. I'll be having heart palpitations, but freedom is freedom no matter the state I'm in when I get it.

Resigning myself to fate, I swallow the last dregs of coffee in my mug and pick up my pen. Picking up where I left off, I sign the first syllable of my name when a knock on my door forces me to look up and find a familiar face studying me.

It's Mac, and I wave him in. The interruption is a welcome one; I haven't seen him since he dropped off a few of his files this morning. The rest of the day he was in the field with Danny and Flack. His eyes are tired and I can tell by the way he moves that his arm is bothering him. I give him a genuine smile and hope I don't look as exhausted as I feel.

"How's it going?" I ask while he looks around the room.

"Douglas Stach is in custody," he replies, referring to the case that's been keeping him up lately, and I'm mildly relieved. Little Doug Stach was a fourteen-year-old boy who beat his twenty-year-old stepbrother to death with his little league baseball bat.

"Good," I finally say, and I mean it. I spare a quick moment to wish the best for Stach's parents before turning my attention back to Mac.

"It looks like you got a lot done yourself," he says, looking at the boxes of finished files that I have yet to dispose of. "I wish I worked this fast."

"Don't be so sure," I warn him. "After the second box I'm not even sure I wrote in English."

"Are all of these yours?"

I see right through the question. He's asking if I finished his.

"No, not all of them," I say, getting up from the desk to pick up a stack of files I'd set aside to return to him. "I just finished these."

That was a complete lie. I'd done his first.

"Thank you, Stella," he says and I'm reminded of just how much I love my name when he's the one that says it.

"No problem."

"Why don't you call it a night?" he suggests. "I'm sure you have plans you can get away to."

I'm not entirely sure how to react to this.

"Um… no, not especially."

I catch the look of incredulity on his face before he can cover it up and my Mediterranean temperament contemplates making something of the look before I remember that I'm tired and don't feel like an interrogation. For a moment I think he's going to apologize, but he doesn't. I'm glad; I wouldn't have been responsible for my actions.

He's about to say something when the cell phone on his hip starts to ring. His eyes apologize for the interruption and he takes the call while I look on. I can see his personality shift from friend to forensic scientist as the voice on the other line begins to talk. He frowns and I have a feeling that I know what's coming next.

"Where?"

The one-word question solidifies my theory and I'm back around the desk in a flash, reaching for my coat. I hear an address being read off, and Mac disconnects the call after the promise of his arrival in a few minutes. He replaces the cell phone on his belt and gives me a pained expression when he notices that I'm ready to go with him.

"You don't have to," he says and I look at him like he's crazy.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, shrugging the coat over my shoulders. "Everyone else is gone for the night. What are you going to do, work the entire scene by yourself?"

The look on his face says that I've won the debate and I savor the victory; I don't often have the opportunity.

"Come on," I say, ushering him out the door. "I'll even let you drive."

**-----**

I'm not too surprised to find out that our body is in a bar. Most crime scenes are pretty common-place; apartments and other homes, alleys, dumpsters. Statistically people's homes and obvious body dumps are where we find most of our victims. Every now and then, we get a crazy one that doesn't make sense until we put all the pieces together. Bars aren't in the top five body discovery sites, but they're nowhere near unheard of.

Mac pulls up to the curb and parks next to the police cruiser and the ambulance designated for transportation of the body. We climb out and instantly we're in investigator mode, trading the comfortable silence of the car for the sirens and uproar of the bar crowd that's been quarantined outside. Snow is starting to fall and I pull my coat a little tighter around me, wondering if any of it will stick. Mac walks beside me, his arm barely an inch from mine. This kind of closeness is so natural now that I barely notice. As a team, we function well together.

There's a natural division of labor between Mac and me that's almost as dependable as taxes and traffic. I do the talking, and he does the evidence. Every now and then the dynamic changes according to who needs to be handled, but we know what works. Strangely enough, that's comforting in and of itself.

A uniform finds us right of the bat and leads us into the bar. The air smells like stale smoke and cheap cologne, and somehow I get the impression that Mickey's Bar isn't the classiest joint in town. I look over at Mac and his eyes are scanning the room for anything his analytical mind can translate into evidence later. It amazes me to watch him work and if I'm not careful it can get in the way of my own. In this environment, though, I know this should be the least of my concerns. It doesn't take much to shake the thought and get back to the task at hand.

Wordlessly we wander to the back of the darkened room to what I suppose is meant to pass for a ladies' room. Pale legs in modest heels peek out from the stall at the end of the row, leaving me to believe it was the location of our victim. Mac pulls the stall door open and the air that rushes to meet us smells worse than the air outside. We both instinctively cover our mouths with our sleeves. Death isn't a new smell for either of us, but there are some things even forensic scientists never get used to.

The woman is small and has short blonde hair that hangs in a bob near her jaw. She's slumped over the toilet like she wants to be sick. The bowl is clean, though, and there's no water anywhere on the floor that would suggest she'd been drowned. Her face is incredibly pale, but that happens when blood stops moving. We study the victim for a few seconds more, but then Mac motions for a camera and I leave him to the scene, seeking out the owner.

Michael "Mickey" Battaglia also happens to be the bartender, weighing in at a solid 250 pounds that look more like muscle than fat. Graying black hair falls in messy waves around his ears and the look in his eyes tells me that he may have been a killer at some point, but not tonight. I step up to him and realize he's over a foot taller than me. It doesn't really matter; being a woman in a man's profession teaches you how to compensate for size.

"Mickey?" I ask and he spares me a curious glance before nodding his head. I show him my badge. "I'm Detective Bonasera with the New York crime lab. You're the one that called the police, correct?"

He examines my shield for a second and finally looks back into my eyes.

"Yeah," he admits slowly. "One of the women said that another woman had been in there for a long time, and I sent one of my waitresses back there to check on her. Kim came back up to the front screaming about a dead body."

I nod, writing it down. "Did you notice the woman when she came in?"

"Yeah, she was my first customer of the night," he answers. "She came in when I opened the doors at two o'clock and took a seat at the back booth over there." He points to a tattered green booth near the back of the room and I make a mental note to look over it. "She ordered rum and cokes all night. She just sat there with her book, and I lost track of her after everybody else started coming in."

"Was anyone with her?"

He shakes his head. "No, nobody. As far as I could tell, anyway. Like I said, I lost track of her. You can talk to Kim, though. She catches a lot of stuff that I don't. I made her stay in case you wanted to talk to her."

"Thank you," I say and I mean it. Witnesses have a tendency of getting away from you. "I'll talk to Kim in a little bit. Where is she?"

"That's her over there," he says and gestures toward a short forty-something woman with over-processed hair and a rose tattoo on her wrist. The crumbled up tissue in her hand tells me that she's not handling her discovery very well.

I hand him a card with my name and number on it and express my thanks for his help. He agrees to call me if he thinks of anything else, and I'm mildly surprised when he doesn't ask when he can invite people back inside for business. As far as witnesses go, I could have gotten a lot worse.

I approach Kim, who is standing just outside the radius of another group of people. Most look like middle-aged singles looking to get lucky, but tonight they're going to be disappointed. The reason they're being held is so I can question them. I'll go through them one-by-one until they've convinced me that they have nothing to offer our investigation. Most of them will have nothing to give me, and that's a fact I've grown to accept over the last few years.

"Kim?" I ask and give her my best unobtrusive smile. She sniffles and nods her head. "Hi, I'm Stella. I work for the crime lab. I was hoping I could talk to you for just a few minutes."

She nods her head and follows me away from the mass of people standing just beside her. Her blue eyes are a little bloodshot from crying and her nose has turned bright pink at the tip; I feel sorry for her. Not everyone can handle that kind of thing. Sensing her need for reassurance, I stand close enough to be comforting but not close enough to seem invasive.

"Mickey tells me that you're the one who found her," I start slowly, giving her time to adjust to the circumstances.

She takes a deep breath and nods her head.

"Yeah, I did," she says. "She's been here all night, and she was a real sweet lady so I kept an eye on her for most of it. She just sat there with the same sad smile, reading her book and drinking." She choked a sob and I lay a hand on her arm. "I should have noticed how much she was drinking, but I didn't think about it because she seemed so calm."

"Did she drink a lot?"

Kim nods. "More than I'm used to seeing for a woman her size," she says. "But I just figured, 'Hell, let her.' Singles' Depression Day and all. And it wasn't like she was being rowdy like the other guys who decide to come in and get hammered. She was real quiet, you know? Always said please and thank you."

I make a note of this. Part of me is starting to wonder if this is a murder after all.

"Did you see anyone with her?

"No, no one but me was ever over at that table," she says. "Which I thought was weird, to tell you the truth. She was a nice-looking lady, you know? Usually the guys in here swoop down on women by themselves."

I nod, looking over at the crowd waiting to go home.

"Did she say anything to you?" I ask. "Anything that sounded strange?"

"Not a thing. She said she was cold once, but that was it."

"Did you notice when she went into the bathroom?" I ask her.

"No. I took her another drink and I didn't go back to check on her until a few minutes later, and she'd left her book on the table so I thought she'd gone to the bathroom," she tells me and sniffles again. "I didn't think anything of it until one of the other girls came out of the bathroom saying that someone had been in there a long time.

"I knew it was her, because she hadn't come back to her table yet and she didn't seem like the type to stiff a person, you know? So I go in to check on her, thinking all that booze had finally caught up with her, and I open the stall door. And she's… _there,_" Kim says, motioning frantically with her hand and tearing up again. "I didn't touch her or anything, I swear. It scared me so bad I ran out of there yelling at the top of my lungs. It surprised me, you know? I've never seen a dead body that close before."

"It must have been incredibly hard for you," I say with the utmost honesty. "You did the right thing calling us, Kim."

She sniffles again and nods her head.

"Here's my card," I offer and hand her another from my pocket. "If you remember anything else, or even if you just need someone to talk to, you can call me anytime."

She spares me a teary smile. "Thanks. That's sweet."

I tell Kim goodbye and walk over to the booth that our victim had occupied the entire evening. I feel a pang of sadness that a woman would feel the need to start drinking at two in the afternoon, but I have no idea what's going on in her life. Who am I to judge? Taking my thoughts from that, I pick up the book that still rests on the table. It's a worn paperback romance with crinkles in the cover and dog-eared pages. The inside flap reads _Cindy Larson _in small, neat, and decidedly feminine letters. The thought I'd had earlier occurs to me again and I decide to go check on Mac.

He's done with photographing the scene when I walk in the door and two coroner's assistants are prepping the body to be transported back to the lab. Mac is holding a small brown leather bag in his hand, looking at a driver's license.

"Cindy Larson?" I ask and he looks up with a question in his eyes.

"Yeah," he says, handing me the small card. "Find someone who knew her?"

"Close," I say and hand him the paperback. "She told me herself."

He takes a look on the inside cover and reads the same name that I found on her driver's license. Looking at the picture, my first impression was how nice she looked. Her eyes were wide set and brown and her lips curved up in the just the littlest bit of a smile. As far as driver's license pictures went, I'm pretty sure this is one of the best I've ever seen. The woman looking up at me from the picture is thirty-eight and an organ donor, and I have to wonder who would want her dead.

When I bring my eyes up, Mac is studying me harder than a he would a fiber under a microscope. The emotion I find there isn't familiar, but I find myself clearing my throat to clear the tension anyway. I never feel as transparent as I do when he looks at me like that. It's moments like these that I remember just how close we really are and wonder how close we could be.

"What are you thinking, Stel?" he asks me, knowing that the wheels in my mind work just as fast as his.

"I don't think she was murdered," I say, convinced even more after I say it.

"I think you're right," he replies, taking her driver's license back to put it in her wallet for transportation back to the lab.

"You do?"

He nods. "Her body temperature was incredibly low, and she had a bluish tint to her skin. It didn't look like she'd been sick."

Taking Kim's words into account, I make a tentative suggestion.

"Alcohol poisoning?"

"Looks like," he confirms and we both turn to watch as the black body bag is wheeled out of the bathroom. He sets the brown purse in an evidence bag and turns back to me. "We'll know more when Sid takes a look at her tomorrow."

"I just hope we're not brushing it off too fast," I comment, helping him take the very few evidence bags collected out of the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mickey wrapping his arms around Kim. She's shaking in his arms and I give him an encouraging glance. He gives me a brief nod of his head and I walk out the front of the bar into the snow that was starting to come down harder around us. I feel Mac's hand against the small of my back, leading me toward the car that we'd left parked at the curb. The gesture isn't new to us, but I found myself leaning into its warmth anyway.

"There was almost no trace evidence to collect," he tells me as he opens the car door for me. Every now and then his gentleman-like behavior catches me by surprise. When he climbs in the driver's seat he continues, "There was no sign of a struggle or any defensive wounds on her hands. Her purse was still on her shoulder."

"I know, I know," I say as we pull away from the bar. I notice that we're going away from the lab, though, and turn to him. "Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home."

"Why?" I ask. "We have a body, and we have evidence. We should go back to the lab and check it out."

"Not tonight," he says with some finality and it shocks me almost into silence. When Mac refuses to work, something's going on.

"We should at least go back to her apartment, Mac," I say earnestly. "What if she has a family? Kids?"

"That haven't noticed she's been out drinking since two this afternoon?"

A give an annoyed sigh even though I know he's playing devil's advocate to my vaguely workaholic rants.

"Fine, okay," he says and turns at the nearest light. "We'll go to her apartment."

**A/N: I know there wasn't a terrible amount of Mac in this chapter, but I swear that's going to change soon. Stick with me! Oh. And review. **


	3. Is This How It Happens?

**Author's Note:**

**Finally. What we all wait for.**

**Please let me know what you think.**

**Chapter Three**

"**Is This How It Happens?"**

Cindy Larson's apartment was a few blocks from the bar where she died on the seventh floor of a building that looked like it had seen better days. The tenets seemed to be composed mostly of hard working, blue-collar people who did their best to make ends meet. It takes a minute of waiting outside the door, but eventually a nervous-looking teenager bearing flowers lets us in behind him. He looks apprehensive, but Mac flashes a badge and he hustles off toward the elevator without another word. His reaction is a normal one.

The super of Cindy's building is a big, burly Italian with heavy eyelids and sweat rings on his t-shirt. His speech is slow and elongated, but a few minutes after opening the door to us he's leading us to the elevator to have a look at Cindy Larson's apartment. The elevator is just as worn as the rest of the building but shows signs of recent vacuuming. It doesn't smell like cigarette smoke or vomit, and it doesn't require copious amounts of prayer to get the door to open once the elevator manages to stop. These qualities alone make it better than most buildings I've looked at recently.

"How well did you know Cindy Larson?" Mac asks the super as we walk down an otherwise empty holiday.

"Not very well," he answers. "We said 'hello' in the hallway every now and again, and she paid her rent early most months. Once she helped me repaint this hallway when some brats from the third floor got a little antsy with a few cans of their dad's spray paint."

"That was nice of her."

He shrugs. "Yeah, I guess so. But like I said, that's all I really knew of her." He stops beside a door and unlocks it with a key ring that must have weighed at least five pounds. "This is hers. Let me know when you want me to come back and lock up."

"Will do," Mac says as we walk in the apartment. Once the super is down the hall he shuts the door and I start taking mental snapshots of the home around me.

It's tidy and has all the usual clutter of being lived in. Unopened mail is in a basket by the phone and that morning's dishes are still soaking in the sink. A chicken breast was left to thaw on the counter, waiting to be turned into dinner for one. An erasable calendar had been filled out for the remainder of the month, with February 23 circled in bold red. According to her home, Cindy Larson had every intention of returning tonight. Something, however, stopped her plans.

"What do you think?" Mac asks me and I realize that he's closer than I thought.

"Her answering machine is blank and the apartment doesn't look like it's been tossed," I say observing the calm apartment. "It looks like she lives alone."

"There goes your family theory," he teases gently, knowing that he thought of it the same as I did.

"Better safe than sorry," I reply and a look passes between us that carries all the potential of a loaded gun.

The words to just leave my mouth seem to be the motto by which Mac and I have handled our relationship. Safe as just friends, rather than sorry as scorned lovers. It's unspoken, but it's a rule that's just as tangible as any law that we uphold on a daily basis. I spend a lot of nights tossing and turning, wishing it wasn't so. Some mornings, when Mac comes into work looking exhausted, I wonder if he's doing the same thing. I doubt it most of the time, and then his eyes meet mine and there's nothing in the world that makes more sense.

I lift my eyes to his and again I'm struck by the intensity I find there. There's a part of me that wants to listen to the words buried in the silence; to read what's written cryptically between the lines. My survival instinct is too strong, though, to get caught swimming in that particular current. The risk of drowning is far too high.

"I'll check the bedroom," I say and my voice is weaker than I expected it to be. If other people were here, Mac would have asked if I was okay. Tonight it's just us and his stare is asking the question anyway. The intimacy we feel but rarely show is there and it reminds me what it's like to care for someone as much as I care for him. He's still staring at me, waiting for me to answer. I'm not surprised to find that I don't have one.

He watches me down the hallway—I can feel it like his hand on the small of my back—and then I hear him move to the living room. Papers shuffle, and I know I'm safe. If it was any other day I wouldn't feel so threatened. This is what I tell myself, though logically I know the fact that it's a holiday has nothing to do with it. Today, though… today I feel raw for some reason. Some fundamental part of me has been peeled away, and I'm left feeling more exposed than I have in years. I don't know what it means, and I don't want to. It goes against my nature to leave an anomaly unexamined, but tonight I feel like it might be easier being someone else.

The pursuit of evidence calls my attention to the bedroom, and I gratefully succumb. The room is small but quaint, and the smaller touches show me that it was a sanctuary. More paperback novels are stacked on the floor next to the nightstand. There are a couple of boutique candles scattered throughout, and I can't help but think that a book by candlelight sounds like a nice way to spend an evening at home. The one thing I notice, though, is the lack of photos. The few pieces on the walls are pieces of art, not pictures of family or friends. A conclusion begs to be drawn, but I refuse. Her bedroom looks too much like my own.

I walk around the side of the bed and an opened envelope on the nightstand catches my attention. The return address is from a family planning clinic on the other side of Manhattan. The letter it contained had been taken out and was now lying beside it. Giving in to curiosity, I pick it up and scan my eyes over the first few lines. The meaning takes just a second to understand, and once I do my heart begins to sink. I was suddenly consumed by the fact that it may have been two victims instead of one.

She'd been trying to have a baby.

She'd been trying for months, if I understand the lettering completely. The sadness I feel then is suffocating. It breaks my heart that a woman brave enough to smile for a driver's license photo and attempt parenthood on her own is now lying on an autopsy table a few miles away. It's easy to view a victim as just another case until you find something like this; the thing that makes them even more human in your eyes. It's hard to see death on a daily basis without desensitizing yourself to it, and I'm just as guilty as anyone else. We can't get hung up on every victim because it would affect out work and, within a few months, drive us absolutely crazy.

But the emotional aspect of her death is by no means the only thing that my brain picks up on. If she'd been trying to get pregnant, why did she drink? It wasn't just a glass of wine with a meal, either. It had been enough to slow her body's respiratory processes to a complete stop, resulting ultimately in her death. A woman trying to have a baby doesn't do something like that.

Deciding that I'm missing something, I leave the letter lying on the bed and head for the bathroom. If she was trying to get pregnant, she would have been on medicines for fertility. If she was already pregnant, she would be on prenatal vitamins.

Her bathroom is incredibly small and decorated with prints of pink roses, right down to the ruffled shower curtain that hangs on the opposite side of the room. Her medicine cabinet is mostly bare, save for dental floss and a prescription I recognize as being the fertility meds. I'm comforted some by the thought, but only for a moment. She may not have known she was pregnant. This thought in mind, I pull a pair of latex gloves from my pocket and reach for the trash can.

The first thing that catches my eye is an empty pregnancy test box. The stick is inside and I hold my breath as I pull it out.

It's negative, but my relief is short-lived. I find two more negative pregnancy tests in the bottom of the can and three unused tests in the cabinet below her sink; she was planning on trying again. When I leave the bathroom, a more complete picture of the woman is forming itself in my head. The letter I'd read earlier had warned that the first few tries at artificial insemination didn't always take, but instinct is telling me that she'd taken her inability to conceive hard enough to feel like drinking at two in the afternoon.

I'm on my way out of the bedroom when I trip over another stack of books piled at the end of the bed. Cursing under my breath, I bend down to pick them up. I'm not sure why. Logically, I know that Cindy Larson won't be returning to her home. On the emotional hand, however, I know that if something happened to me I would want my belongings to be handled with equal respect.

"Are you okay?"

Mac is standing in the doorway, looking around for the source of the noise I'm sure I caused.

"Yeah. I tripped," I say lamely and the corner of his mouth tilts up the tiniest bit into an amused grin.

One day, I'd love to kiss him there.

Setting the thought aside, I reach for the books I'd scattered. The titles I retrieve are all similar to the one she'd left in the bar. One, however, didn't look like a novel. This book was bound in rose-colored leather and looked much more like a diary than a recreational read. I know it's wrong—there are female codes about this, I'm sure—but I can only hope she forgives me. If there's something here that would point my eyes in the direction of a murderer, I need all the help she can offer me.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asks me as I take a seat on the corner of the bed with the diary in my lap.

"I think so," I confirm and look up at him. "Have you found anything?"

"Her rolodex is full of business cards and connections. I couldn't find a single number she kept for personal reasons," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "Unless I'm mistaken, she's a matchmaker."

My eyes widen.

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head. "From what I understand, she works for a matchmaking company here in Manhattan. She's listed as a 'romantic consultant'."

"And she drinks herself to death on Valentine's Day."

"Looks that way," he says and the line of his mouth tightens just a fraction. "Unless there's something in that book that tells us otherwise."

I nod and open the cover.

It's filled with the same neat handwriting that covered her calendar and the jackets of her books. The date is written at the top, and I'm not really surprised to find that "dear diary" has been written on the top left corner of every entry. This particular journal starts back in September, and the entry is only two paragraphs.

_Dear Diary,_

_I met with the sperm bank again today. I start my fertility treatments next week, and I can't wait. It feels like my entire life has been leading up to this moment. I picked up the phone to call my mother and tell her before I realized she wasn't going to answer. I still miss her. Especially now._

_I wonder what my baby will be like. Will it be a boy or a girl? I think I want a boy. They're rowdy and loud and so much fun. I'll have to start thinking of names. I've always really liked the name Colby. I'll get some name books from the library and look at my options. _

I wince a bit as I finish. There was no way she could have known back in September that February would roll around and find her childless and deceased. I scan my eyes over the rest of the entries and find nothing that mentions stalkers or unhappy clients that would have harassed her. Every other entry is a detailed list of names she's picked out—both boys' and girls' names—and those entries are punctuated with the sad reports that the artificial insemination didn't take. She's upbeat, though, and writes that she's sure it will work the next time. There are lots of "next times" as it turns out, and my heart aches for her as I read of each continued disappointment.

Her last entry was written last night, and the longer entry is marked with frequent stains on the pale pages. The ink has run and bled through. Her despair shows with every tear that mars her words. I read through it slowly, no longer convinced that it's a murderer we're looking for.

_Dear Diary,_

_I'm not pregnant, and I'm not sure why. I was so certain it would work this time, but I was wrong. Again. They keep telling me that there's no reason I shouldn't be able to conceive, but it's not working. _

_I keep thinking that I've wasted precious time. Ten years ago I would have laughed if someone asked if I had children. I was much too busy then. I loved my job, I had a decent apartment, and much more of a social life. Now, after the parade of terrible break-ups and the death of my mother, I can't help but wonder what was so important that I couldn't have given up._

_I think I've lost my chance. All the years I spent trying to find someone else were wasted, and now I can't have my family. I wonder about Amber all the time, and I wonder why I ever gave her up. I was young, I know, but I could have done it. Lots of people do. My own mother did. Is this my punishment? Am I being punished for giving up my own daughter? It's the only thing that makes sense._

_Every day I see people who are looking for true love. I find them their partners, and I get wedding invitations all the time. I thought once that I always had time for that, and that it would come when I was ready. I've been ready for a while now, and still I'm here writing down what I should be telling someone else. _

_I know I decided last year that I didn't need a man to raise a child, but it would have been so nice. I know better than anyone what it's like to grow up without a father. But I'm almost forty now, and it won't be safe to get pregnant for much longer. I can't keep waiting for a husband when what I really want is a baby._

_I don't know why I ever waited. One day I was twenty and carefree, and then I blinked. Now it's been almost twenty years and I'm alone. I won't ask where the time went. I'm pretty sure I already know._

My hands are shaking as I close the diary, and I feel the tell-tale sting of tears hovering just behind my eyes. So many of her words feel like echoes in my head, and I don't bother pretending that I don't know where I've heard them before.

I'm always telling myself that I have time. Cindy Larson is only a little bit older than I am.

Every time I turn down a dinner date from a perfectly nice guy, I tell myself that I'll have time later. I'm too busy right now. Every movie I miss, and every ballet that I don't get a chance to go to bounce off the armor that is my ignorance. Where once it was a shield, it no longer feels like bliss.

Every day that Mac doesn't hold me, I tell myself that it's fine. Every kiss that we never share and every opportunity that we never take… they're hovering, just out of grabbing distance, and I don't dare reach for them. Because there's tomorrow, and the next day, and even still the day after that.

_Of course you'll always have time, Stella. _

It's so easy to believe when I know I'll be getting up to go into work the next morning. He'll be waiting for me there, I know, because he always is. He's the constant in my life, and I'll always stand patiently by while we decide when it's safe to love each other. Now the idea seems stupid.

I feel a strong hand on my shoulder and I know exactly the look that will be on his face when I finally get the courage to look up at him. He'll see the tears in my eyes and he'll hold me for a few seconds, rocking me until he understands what's going on. I'll look up at him and smile the way I only do when he's in the room, and we'll turn away because we're not there yet. We're not willing to take that final step. And it won't matter, because there's always tomorrow.

"Is this how it happens, Mac?" I ask him softly, running my hands over the smooth leather cover of Cindy's diary.

"What's happening, Stella?" he asks and I can hear the roughness in his voice. I don't know what it means.

"Time is flying by," I say, my eyes still staring down. "One day we're fine, and then the next it's all behind us and we don't know where it went."

He says nothing, but he squeezes my shoulder.

"She was trying to have a baby," I say. "But she couldn't and she didn't understand why. It was why she went to the bar today. I don't think she meant to kill herself, but it happened anyway. There are still unused pregnancy tests in the bathroom, and she'll never need them."

I feel a tear slide down my cheek and I wipe it impatiently away, feeling ridiculous but justified. I set the diary down beside me and stand up, facing my best friend and the man I've loved for years but kept on the sideline waiting for fairer weather. In every line of his face I see the better half of myself, and I know I can't let this go another day. Because one day, he may not be there waiting for me in the lab. One day, he may not be around to hold me. The thought makes me shudder; it's been my nightmare on more than one sleepless night.

"I can't keep doing this, Mac," I tell him breathlessly. "I keep waiting for the day when our lives aren't so complicated, but I don't think it's coming. There's no reason for me to keep pretending I don't love you, or that you're not the only reason I can find to get out bed on the days when the world catches up with me."

Another tear falls and I find that my thoughts are getting harder to sort through. His eyes are fixed on me, and for once I can't see what's going on behind them.

"What happens when it's all gone, Mac?" I beg of him. "This may not be what you want—maybe you've never wanted it—but I do. I'm not holding onto that secret forever. You're the only one I've ever wanted to wait for; you're the only one who's worth it."

The air rushes out of my lungs and I can feel my knees crumble beneath me when he says nothing. I realize in a rush of understanding that I've managed to ruin everything with the confession I'd been suppressing for years. A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is telling me that tomorrow I'll be starting over, and I'll be doing it alone.

I've moved to walk out of the room when his voice reaches my turned back.

"Do you want kids?"

The question catches me completely by surprise and I turn around, confused.

"I've always thought we would adopt," he says. "At least the first. After that, we could try seeing what our children would look like. Genetics have always interested me."

My heart is hammering in my chest and I feel like I might faint.

"I want three," he continues, stepping a fraction closer to me. "At least one girl, so she can look like her mother. They'll all be intelligent; I know that already. I want them to be as strong and resilient as you are every day of their lives."

"Are you serious?" I ask. My voice is trembling dangerously as he comes within an inch of where I'm standing in the doorway.

He nods.

"You're a dancer, Stel, and I'm a soldier," he explains, taking my arms and pulling me against him. "I'll teach them to fight for what they believe in, and you'll teach them grace and compassion." His breath tickles my cheek as he leans close to me. "You can't tell me they won't be amazing."

I let out a laugh that's almost a sob, and I can't help but marvel at how much I love this crazy, wonderful, _beautiful _man.

I feel his lips at the corner of my mouth and my eyes instinctively close, waiting to feel his next touch. They slide over the skin of my cheek and he kisses me again just below my ear. I'm shaking, I know, but he's holding me close.

"I love you, Stella," he whispers and snakes his arms around my back, pressing me closer. "There's not a day that goes by that I don't imagine you here against me, just like this. You're all I have, and you're all I want."

His hand moves to cup my cheek, and I lean into him. Lips I never thought I'd feel find mine and the sensation almost brings me to my knees. This first touch, first kiss, is soft and I feel like it could disappear in the blink of an eye. Mac pulls back from me and I find myself staring into darkened blue eyes. He's asking permission, and I give it to him by kissing him again.

This time, we're not gentle. He kisses me hard and fast, and the resulting tension knots itself low in my stomach. His body is hard against mine, and I feel the sinew of every muscle as I cling to him. His hand brushes across my ribs and the breath in my lungs catch. Instantly a fire erupts, filling me with a heat that I never hoped to feel again. His shirt is bunched in my fists and I tilt my head up, needing more of him than he was offering only to realize that it will never be enough. His tongue brushes against mine and I feel the undeniable rush of every kiss we never stole, and every night we spent in separate beds. Arching against him now, I'll never understand why.

"Tell me again," he rasps against my mouth, the command sending shivers down to the tips of my toes. His lips find my jaw and I start to shake, wondering if my legs are going to support me much longer.

"I love you," I moan, the breath impossibly heavy in my chest. I can't imagine ever keeping that fact secret anymore.

He releases me only after I'm dizzy and desperate for him, and he keeps his arms around me while I find my legs to be stable beneath me. We're both panting but a smile lurks at the corner of his mouth. Unable to resist, mine follows. He pushes a rampant curl back from my face with the back of his hand, and the gesture is gentle enough to make me weak. Standing here, with him, I've never felt so wanted in my life. More loved. The look in his eyes tells me it's only the beginning.

As far as Valentine's Day goes, I could have done worse.

A lot worse.

**A/N: I'm contemplating an epilogue. Any comments?**


	4. Things as They Are

**Author's Note:**

**Well, because of popular demand that made me feel special, here is the epilogue. I can only hope that I'm doing the characters justice. =)**

**Epilogue**

"**Things as They Are"**

It's July now.

The heat is absolutely sweltering, and the smells of New York City are in full swing; for better or worse. The sun is just coming up and the complete lack of curtains allows it to shine directly into my eyes. After a certain time, closing them doesn't work anymore. It's too hot to sleep, anyway. It's impossible to get a decent night's sleep when you're covered in sweat.

The windows of my apartment are down, but my air conditioner is on sixty degrees and I have the fans going to keep the air from standing still. It's not enough, though, and I kick the blankets off my legs. The movement elicits a frustrated grunt from me and I hear a chuckle from the other side of the bed. I roll over to find Mac already awake, staring at me with clear eyes. He's always up before me, and today is no different. His arms reach out to pull me close and his lips drift over mine.

"Good morning," he tells me and I yawn.

"Not until I get coffee it isn't."

He laughs and runs his fingers through the curly mess of hair on my head. His breath is sweet and mingling with my own; it surprises me to realize that in the few hours I've been asleep I've grown to miss him. I'm smiling as a fingers travels slowly down my face, ending eventually with the curve of my chin. I close my eyes, and I'm considering a late start when he removes his hand and crawls out of my bed. The disappointment is sharp, but I can handle it.

"Come on, get up."

He's standing at the end of the bed, reaching for his shirt. My eyes travel appreciatively over his broad chest and the muscles in his abdomen, my fingertips tingling the memory of them on my skin. My tongue flicks over my bottom lip on its own accord, and I have absolutely no problem objectifying him for a little while. When my eyes finally go back to his face, he's eyeing me.

"I know that look," he says suspiciously. "And the answer is no. Get up."

"Come back to bed, Taylor," I suggest and let the sheet slide a little farther down my bare shoulder. I'm playing hardball, and we both know it. Aware of the fact that I have a serious advantage, I use it. "It's only seven o'clock. We still have plenty of time."

I watch the muscles in his jaw flex and I'm daring to hope that I've won. He walks slowly over to my side of the bed and kneels down to my level, his blue eyes meeting my green ones. Always the scientist, he's considering his options and weighing the benefits versus the potential consequences. I wonder the conclusion he's reached.

"How much time?" he asks and his voice is low. I'm winning.

I run my fingers through his hair, scraping my nails lightly along his scalp. The shiver it causes doesn't go unnoticed. It's a low blow, but I'm okay with it. I like winning, especially when he's the prize.

"We can make time."

Without another word, he stands up to scoop me off the bed. His mouth presses hard against mine and my arms fly around his neck. I grip for dear life, knowing that it's exactly what's at stake when blood starts roaring like thunder in my ears. Mac Taylor, I've found, wakes me up a lot faster than a cup of coffee ever could. Every cell in my body is vibrantly alive and humming in anticipation. Every time with him is like this, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's not until my bare feet feel the cold tile of the bathroom floor that I realize where I am. Unsteady legs barely hold me, but I manage. Forcing my heavy eyes to focus, I watch him open the linen cabinet door and pull a towel down from the shelf. He tosses it at me reaches for the door handle, intending to leave me behind.

"Take a shower," he orders and the mildly satisfied look on his face tells me he thinks he's won something.

"You cheated," I tell him, sounding unintentionally petulant.

"You played dirty."

"You tricked me."

He grins. "I hope you'll forgive me some day."

"And what if I don't?" I ask, narrowing my eyes as I walk toward him. My hands run down his chest and end at the waistband of his sweats. "I'm sensitive, you know. I may never recover."

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

I nod. "Oh, yeah."

"I'll just have to convince you, then," he says, catching my wrists in his hands. "I wonder how I'll manage to accomplish that."

The look in his eyes leaves no doubt in my mind what he has planned for me. Excitement doesn't even begin to describe the sensations careening around in the pit of my stomach. Surprisingly, the joy of winning a battle gets lost in the excitement of what the victory means. So what do I do? I leave the towel on the floor, close the door behind me, and take a shower just like he asked.

Okay, fine. I might have had a little help.

Do you blame me?

-----

Today is the eighth day of July, and it's the last day of my lease. Most of my belongings are in boxes stacked around the apartment. Almost everything has been packed away already; Mac and I have been working on it for a while now. It's a formality, really; this hasn't been my home in a long time. Everything important to me is over at Mac's—now mine _and _Mac's—apartment. But now, the smaller parts of my life are the final pieces in the puzzle that's waited years to be finished. It feels incredibly good.

The movers arrive just minutes after we've dressed, and Mac helps them load boxes while I pack the very last of my things and take the frame of my bed apart. The work is tiring and the heat is murderous even with the fans going. I'm a little spoiled, though; I'm not taking furniture down to the truck that's parked outside to move all my belongings. I make a mental note to get the guys something to drink after I've sealed the box I'm working on now.

When we all break for lunch, my kitchen and living room are empty. Everything is in a truck outside, waiting to be delivered to our new home. Mac is tired but smiling, and I'm right there with him. The guys get started again and I realize that leaving this apartment doesn't really mean much to me. It's true, it wasn't mine for long, but having something of my own doesn't compare to the adventure I'm about to embark on by sharing a home with Mac.

_Home. _

The orphan in me smiles, and I know that a home with Mac Taylor is what everything's been leading up to. The anticipation leading up to this day has been a long time coming, and I can't wait to hand my key over and make our living arrangements permanent. Eventually we'll have to make a home elsewhere—his subtle hints about children are getting far less subtle as the days pass—but that will be something to worry about more down the road. He's excited, but I have a little more thinking to do.

We're discussing marriage now, and we haven't arrived at a decision. We know it's going to happen, we just don't know how soon. I've always liked the idea of a fall wedding myself. We've both agreed that it's going to be a small wedding when it happens. The team will probably be there as witnesses, but other than that we haven't written anything in stone. I suppose we will someday, but not today. Today we're moving.

Strong arms circle my waist and I lean back, letting his warm breath shimmer over my neck. A kiss is placed just behind my ear and I can feel myself glow a little. In the five months we've been together, _really _together, his touch still catches me by surprise if I'm not ready. And here I've lived my life thinking I was reading for anything.

"We have to hurry," I whisper. "My boyfriend could catch us."

He smiles against my skin and laughs.

"We don't want that, do we?" he jokes and holds me a little tighter. My eyes are staring out the window and over the city. It's beautiful, and I'm drawn to it despite never believing I'd stay. Now I can't imagine living anywhere else.

"Having second thoughts?" he asks and I know that his honesty masks his worrying. As if I could ever leave him; that part of our relationship hasn't changed. Every now and then I need to convince him just how much I love him, but I'd do it every day for the rest of my life and never once complain if it meant I'd have him forever.

"Not a single one," I say and it's the truth. As far as major decisions go, this is the easiest one I've ever made. Being with him is so natural now, and that's how I know it's right.

**THE END**


End file.
